


Lessons in Puppetry

by kristinp



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Kidnapping, Mind Control, Mind Rape, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Possession, Psychological Torture, Torture, Whump, Witch Curses, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-09-24 08:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17097557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristinp/pseuds/kristinp
Summary: While on the job, Sam gets drugged and kidnapped by the very witch he is hunting. Will Dean get his brother back? And if he does, will he still really be Sam?





	1. Kidnapped

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multi-chapter story, so please let me know what you think! Each chapter fills a different prompt for Bad Things Happen Bingo on Tumblr. Chapter 1 Prompt: Kidnapping.

Sam made his way out of yet another bar on his route through rainy downtown Des Moines. He pulled up Dean’s info on his phone and sent a quick “bar #4 is no go,” then tucked the phone back into his pocket. Maybe there would be a clue to whatever they were hunting at the next stop.

His long strides carried him past a few pawn shops and another bar. As his boot splashed into a particularly muddy puddle, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He kept his stride deliberately even, checking his peripherals for anything unusual. He couldn’t see anything particularly out of place, but his gut feeling confirmed one thing.

_He was being followed._

Sam turned down the next side street, then ducked into a small alcove, waiting for his pursuer to catch up. He took several steadying breaths, planting his feet firmly and pulling out the demon killing knife he often carried. He waited, poised to attack whoever had decided to follow him.

No one came. He waited. A few cars sped past his hiding place, and the sound of a police siren faded in and then out of hearing range. Still nothing.

Cautiously, he snuck closer to the edge of the building, then peeked around the corner, his knife raised.

Sam barely caught a glimpse of wavy brown hair and a green coat before a cloud of powder puffed into his face. Surprised, he inhaled, taking in the strong scent of herbs, maybe mint or lavender.

More concerning was the wave of vertigo and confusion that overtook him. His arms became very heavy all of a sudden, and his brain felt like it had melted into a puddle that sloshed around the inside of his skull.

“Get in the car,” he heard, echoing through the haziness, as a small hand grasped his arm.

_What car?_ He thought. _Why would I do that?_ And yet, he noticed his feet were already clumsily following the woman’s command, as if the directive had bypassed his brain entirely. Sam felt like he should be panicking right now, but it was very difficult when each step made his vision twist and tilt, the falling rain streaking this way and that across his vision. The guiding hand on his arm was the only constant point in his perception.

“What—” he mumbled, cutting off as he dropped into the warm, leather seat of a car. _A rental_ , _judging by the smell,_ his muggy brain supplied.

“Hush now, Sam,” he heard the female voice whisper soothingly. “It’s time to go to sleep.”

Sam wasn’t sure if he was sitting up or lying down, or whether he should be concerned that this woman knew his name. All he could do was drift and sink down into the inky abyss.


	2. Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam finds himself a little tied up. What does this witch want with him, and what will she do to get it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Bad Things Happen Bingo. Prompt: Forced to kneel/bow.

Sam didn’t think he was quite unconscious as he felt the car rumble beneath him, but as his head spun at being jostled by yet another pothole in the road, he vaguely wondered if it might have been better if he _was_ asleep. All he could focus on was the steady rhythm of his own breathing and the passing streetlamps that flashed through his closed eyelids. At one point, he felt like they may have transitioned to a gravel road, but he couldn’t be too sure.

“Get up,” the female voice snapped as she pulled him out of the car ( _When did they stop?_ ) and his feet again supported him with no input from his brain.

Shapes and colors flowed past his eyes as his feet carried him along, which made his head throb, so Sam just let his focus drift. Was he inside or outside? He couldn’t tell anymore.

“On your knees.”

_Don’t do it_ , said the distant part of him that was still somewhat aware. Sam swayed on his feet despite the hand gripping his arm ( _Was it always there?_ ) but nonetheless locked his knees to keep himself upright.

“I said,” hissed the voice, “ _kneel_ , Sam.”

Sam felt a jolt as his knees were kicked out of their locked position. His kneecaps zinged with pain ( _Shouldn’t that wake him up?_ ) as they made contact with the hard floor. His head was spinning and pounding, he couldn’t think, and he felt something hard and cold click, first around his left wrist, then his right, then around his ankles.

Sam continued to float and wait for the world to stop spinning, when suddenly a sharp scent hit his nose like a slap to the face. It was like he had been underwater and was now back on the surface, gasping for breath, adrenaline pumping through his veins. His mind was definitely clear once more, the cobwebs swept away, replaced with the overwhelming need to _run, fight, go, do something_. His senses felt sharper, more intense, and he became acutely aware of the metal cuffs pinning him down, as well as the hard floor beneath his knees.

“Hello, Sam,” came a voice from his left. He startled, turning his head to see a woman staring back at him with a smile that did not reach her cold, grey eyes. She had dark hair, European features, and a rounded face, and she appeared to be in her late forties. She dressed like an old librarian with long sleeves and a long skirt, and had an oddly dainty posture for someone who had just manhandled an armed, able-bodied hunter into chains. Sam was also fairly certain he heard traces of an accent in her voice. Maybe French?

“Who are you?” panted Sam, his breath still erratic from the weird adrenaline rush that had awoken him. “What did you do to me?”

Sam surveyed what little he could see of his surroundings. It looked like a sitting room; a parlor for the kind of house found near country clubs and private pools. Everything from the polished wooden floors to the long, crystal chandelier screamed _money_. It would have all seemed perfectly respectable, were it not for the array of questionable jars of potion ingredients on the table, and, much more pressingly, the large string of red symbols painted in a ten-foot circle on the floor around Sam.

 “I am Madame Simone Laurent,” said the woman, circling to stand in front of Sam.

“You’re a witch,” stated Sam. “You’re the one we’ve been trying to track down.”

“Actually, Sam, _I_ tracked _you_ down. You _and_ your brother.” The witch, Simone, wandered over to the table and began chopping a root into thin slices. “You Winchesters aren’t nearly as stealthy as you like to think.”

Sam fought to keep the surprise off his face. The fact that this witch knew him and Dean did not change anything about his situation. “Why do you need us?” he asked coolly.

“To find Rowena, of course. Believe me, it’s much easier to locate two hunters than to find a witch twice my age.”

“What do you want with Rowena?” asked Sam, tugging on his persistently immobile cuffs.

“ _Vengeance_ ,” she replied in French. “I want her to pay for what she did to me.”

“Wow,” drawled Sam, “if you’re going through _this_ much trouble, it must be bad. What did she do? Steal your favorite broomstick?”

Simone glared at him. “She left me to _die_ , you _dégénéré_ ,” she snapped, dropping her knife onto the cutting board. “Rowena and I were following a lead to find _The Book of the Damned_. Things went wrong, Rowena got spooked, and she ran away to save herself, leaving me behind while I was on the verge of death.” She scooped the root slices into a bowl, then picked up a mortar and pestle and began grinding another herb. “Rowena will soon regret dearly that I survived that night.”

 “Well, I hate to break it to you,” said Sam, not even trying to fake sympathy, “but Rowena has only become more powerful since you’ve known her. If you go after her, she _will_ kill you.”

 “You are correct, of course,” Simone replied casually. “I cannot go after Rowena myself. That is why you are going help me and bring her to me instead. In fact,” she continued as she set down the mortar and pestle, “you are going to do everything I say.”


	3. Enthralled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The witch wants Sam to obey her, and she will do everything in her power to make that happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Bad Things Happen Bingo. Prompt: Mind rape.

“ _What?_ ” Sam asked articulately.

“I am going to make you submit to me,” said Simone matter-of-factly. The witch’s grin widened.

Sam tugged sharply at his bonds, though the chains kept him firmly on his knees. “I’ve met witches like you,” he growled, “and you can hurt me all you want, but it will never come _close_ to what has already been done to me a hundred times over.” His glare intensified. “I will _never_ submit to you.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Sam.” Simone caressed his face, and Sam jerked his head away at the contact. “All I need to do is bring out a side of you that is more… _cooperative_.”

Sam saw her eyes, so deceptively gentle moments before, turn sharp and predatory. The chains on his wrists and ankles rattled as he fought more vigorously to get away, but the creeping chill in his gut told him that whatever she was going to do might be unavoidable at this point.

Simone went to her work table, returning almost immediately with an opaque plastic spray bottle. Sam felt the misty potion hit his face as the witch muttered a quick spell.

Sam’s face fell slack. The chains stopped rattling, his limbs now limp in their bindings. Whatever this was, it was definitely worse than the magical roofie she had dosed him with earlier. He wasn’t asleep, and he could feel every part of his lightly tingling body, but he couldn’t move a muscle. Even if the chains were gone, he doubted he could move a muscle. He was paralyzed.

Even more unnerving was the odd sense of…detachment he felt, like a tangible void between his mind and the rest of him. Sam was like a ghost in his own body: present, but not in possession of it.

“There,” crooned Simone. Sam had almost forgotten about her during his internal assessment. “Now you’re ready.”

Sam couldn’t even move his eyes to follow her, but he heard the sound of clinking bottles as Simone continued concocting at her workbench. “I know you must be feeling very odd right now,” she continued, “but it’s an essential part of the process.” Sam could hear the smirk in her voice. “Call it a mental lubricant.”

If Sam could have vomited right then and there, he would have. If this was only the first stage, he shuddered to think how his mind and body would become even more violated. Even the ability to properly panic was denied him; his breathing and heart rate remained quite steady.

Finally, Simone returned to Sam’s field of vision, holding a large bowl in her arms. She knelt in front of Sam within the ritual circle and placed the bowl directly in front of Sam’s unmoving body.

Next, she pulled out a dagger, which she used to slice her own hand, allowing a trickle of blood to drip into the bowl. As she wrapped a quick bandage around her bleeding hand, she began to chant in a language Sam did not recognize, but which sounded distantly related to Latin. Simone then pulled out a match, lit it, and dropped it into the bowl. The potion’s surface now danced with bright orange flames.

As Simone continued to chant, Sam noticed a dense, silver mist rising from the fire. The mist weaved and curled, almost completely opaque tendrils creeping lazily but deliberately upward through the air.

Suddenly, the mist changed direction, and Sam’s muted panic spiked as he realized the silver fingers were floating towards _him_. Helpless and paralyzed, he could do nothing but watch as the mist drew closer and closer until all he could see was silver.

Sam’s vision was completely obscured, the witch was still chanting, and the mist was _inside_ him, inside his mind. He could feel it slipping into the void created by the previous potion, and he felt the chanting, which now seemed to come from everywhere, each syllable ringing, a vice-like squeezing on his thoughts, forcing him to withdraw, to shrink, as the voice compressed him further and further into his own mind.

_Let me out_ , he thought desperately. _Let me out, it hurts, make it stop, let me out…_

The chanting stopped.

Mercifully, the pain ended with the chanting, but the silver mist was still there, now a solid, impenetrable cage, imprisoning Sam in a small, dark corner of his mind.

“How do you feel now, Sam?” Simone’s voice felt strangely quiet now that it was whispering outside of him and not through him, but it still startled him.

_How do you think I feel, you crazy witch?_ he tried to say. _Let’s throw_ your _brain into a blender and see how_ you _feel._

“I feel fine,” he heard himself say.

“ _Excellent_.”

Sam felt the _chink_ of a key in a lock as, one by one, his manacles were removed and dropped on the floor. _I’m going to strangle you with my bare hands_ , he thought. His body stayed where it was, kneeling on the floor, its breathing perfectly steady.

“Are you ready to obey me now, Sam?”

Sam felt himself smile as he looked up at her. Then, completely against his volition, his mouth opened and said, “Yes, Madame Simone.”


	4. Obedience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The witch tests the limits of the spell entrapping Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Bad Things Happen Bingo on Tumblr. Prompt: Playing with puppets.

_Previously_

_“Are you ready to obey me now, Sam?”_

_Sam felt himself smile as he looked up at her. Then, completely against his volition, his mouth opened and said, “Yes, Madame Simone.”_

“Stand up, Sam.”

Sam would never get over how disconcerting it was to feel his limbs bend and stretch, to see his perspective shift as his body rose to its feet without any input from Sam himself. Now that he was unchained and no longer kneeling, it was maddening to know that he was physically free to move, but could not so much as twitch a finger. Not, apparently, without a command from _Madame Simone_.

If only he could scream.

“Well,” continued the witch, “the spell seems to be working perfectly. Wouldn’t you agree, Sam?”

_I think we can both agree,_ he thought, _that you are a greedy, sick, twisted, evil—_

“Yes, Madame Simone.”

“Will you do anything I ask, Sam?” He wished he could tear his eyes away from her hungry stare.

“Of course I will,” he heard himself respond.

“Such devotion is admirable,” she mocked, chuckling, “but I need you to prove your boundless loyalty to me.”

Simone’s eyes took on a sadistic gleam that Sam knew did not bode well for him.

“Your gun is over there, on the table next to your jacket,” she said. “Bring it here.”

Sam pushed outward as hard as he could against the silver cage surrounding his mind, while his body moved, somewhat mechanically, to follow Simone’s orders. He could feel the familiar mother-of-pearl grip of his own gun in his hand as he returned to his original position in front of the witch.

“Very good,” she crooned. “Is the safety off?”

He checked. “Yes, Madame Simone.”

Sam was almost dizzy with dread. _What are you doing?_

“Excellent. Now all I need you to do, Sam,” she said, “is aim the gun at your hand…and shoot it.”

Sam redoubled his efforts to break through the mental barrier around him.

“As you wish,” said his mouth.

_No! I will not let you do this to me!_

His fingers tightened around the grip.

_You can’t make me do this!_

He saw his left hand rise. Sam felt it pull the slide. He heard the neat, back and forth sound of a bullet being chambered.

_No! Stop! I’m not going to do it!_

His hands shifted positions. He couldn’t look away.

_Don’t do this!_

He felt the cold tip of the barrel against his palm.

_Stop it!_

Sam’s face and body were steady and calm as he pulled the hammer with his thumb, placed his index finger on the trigger and squeezed.

_Click._

Sam saw the muzzle of the gun resting against his undamaged palm. His hands turned the gun over, inspecting it, then extracted the clip.

_The gun wasn’t loaded._ If Sam had use of his legs, he would have collapsed with relief.

“Good boy, Sam.”

Sam was starting to really hate that predatory smile; Simone was enjoying this far too much.

“Did you know the gun was empty, Sam?” she asked.

“No, I didn’t.” He was also starting to hate the sound of his own blank, emotionless voice.

“Would you do that again, even if I reloaded the gun?”

“Yes, Madame Simone.”

“And you wouldn’t be able to do a thing to stop it, would you?”

Sam felt very small and feeble right then, curled up in the corner of his own mind. He couldn’t argue with that; he had tried everything he could to break free of the spell, and he had still failed.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Well then,” she stated, her cruel eyes scanning him up and down, “the spell seems to be working properly. Put your gun away, Sam. I have a task for you.”

His body obeyed, tucking the handgun into his waistband.

“Good. Now listen carefully, Sam. I need you to return to your brother at the motel. Act as if everything is perfectly normal, and that you lost track of time.”

For the first time since he had been captured, Sam felt a tiny spark of hope; Dean would definitely figure out that something was wrong.

“Then,” Simone continued, “get Rowena to come to you. Have her bring the _Book of the Damned_ with her. Use whatever lie is most believable to convince her to do so. Contact me as soon as you have verified that she is on her way.”

“Yes, Madame Simone.”

“And if that brother of yours gets in the way,” she added, grasping his chin and staring intensely up at him, “stop him by any means necessary. Understand?”

“Yes, Madame Simone.”

Sam wanted to vomit.

“Good.” She let go of his chin, resuming her normal arrogant demeanor. “Better get going then, Sam.”

Sam’s body worked efficiently as it gathered his belongings and put on his jacket. He almost had his hand on the doorknob when Simone stopped him.

“Sam, dear?”

His body turned. “Yes?”

Simone fiddled absently at a stray lock of her hair. “I can’t thank you enough for your help. You really are the best servant a witch could hope for.”

As his body nodded in acknowledgement and left the building, Sam tried to focus on mentally preparing for what was in store, dreading the inevitable disaster that he was completely powerless to stop.


	5. Seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam tries to send a message to Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I had some family stuff going on, and Dean was giving me some trouble. My goal is to get the rest of this story finished and posted by the end of the month, so things should go pretty quickly from here.  
> Written for Bad Things Happen Bingo on Tumblr. Prompt: Fighting from the inside.

Sam couldn’t do much while his body carried him back to the motel, so he spent the journey studying the Not-Sam that now controlled his limbs.

_It knows how to hotwire a car_ , Sam pondered, _which means it has my intelligence and skills._

He saw a man with a suitcase wave at him as they passed each other in the motel parking lot, and felt himself wave and greet the man in return. _So not a total robot, then._

The pre-dawn light was just enough for him to see his hands unlock the door to the motel room. The lights were still on, and a slightly rumpled Dean sat at the small table, looking up from the glowing laptop as the door opened.

 “Sam,” Dean breathed, his shoulders relaxing. “Where the hell have you been? Are you okay?”

_No, I’m not okay,_ he tried to say as he watched Dean approach and inspect him for physical wounds.

“I’m fine, Dean,” said Sam’s body, sounding believably exasperated at his brother’s ministrations. “I was chasing down a lead that turned out to be a dead end, and then my phone died. Sorry for making you worry.”

_Please tell me you’re not buying this bull crap._

“Chasing down a lead?” repeated Dean. He studied Sam’s face intently as he took a sip of beer. “Was this ‘lead’ anything like that librarian in Milwaukee you had a huge crush on?”

Sam wanted to roll his eyes. _That’s even worse bull crap._

Not-Sam rolled his eyes, as if mimicking Sam’s sentiment. “I’m not like you, Dean,” he said. “I am actually capable of staying focused on the job.”

Dean shrugged, then took a slice of cold pizza from the box on the table, apparently content that Sam was not in any peril.

_If only you knew_ , Sam thought.

“So,” Dean mumbled through the pizza, “no new leads on how the vics are connected?”

“Not that I could find,” said Sam’s body, joining Dean at the table and picking up a slice of his own.

_Stop listening to him! He’s not me!_

Dean and Not-Sam ate in silence for a few minutes, supposedly pondering their next steps for the case.

_Look at me, Dean. The case is right in front of you!_

“It might be nothing,” Sam’s mouth offered, “but a few of the people I questioned seemed a little…hostile. Like, more than you would expect, y’know?”

“Okay,” Dean urged.

“I mean…they were mostly acting normal, but when they talked about the vics…I don’t know, it was different. It was like they were compelled to be more aggressive, more confrontational.”

Dean leaned forward. “What, like they were under some kind of spell or something?”

“I think so,” said Not-Sam.

Real-Sam wanted to punch something. _I’m the only one under a spell, Dean! Look at me!_

“So,” added Dean, “we might be dealing with a witch.”

“Could be.” Sam’s body leaned back in his chair. “Maybe we should call Rowena. Have her come by and help us track them down.”

Dean raised his eyebrows indignantly. “Why? We’ve tackled plenty of witches before.”

“Yes, I know, but it might be good to have a witch on our side for once, and I can’t think of any other good leads that we could follow on our own. Can you?”

Dean crossed his arms, his forehead crinkling, looking for answers.

_How about looking at what’s right in front of you?_

“Yeah, okay,” Dean conceded. “I’ll make the call since our resident geek boy let his own phone die.” Dean rose to his feet and started towards the nightstand where his phone was charging.

_Don’t!_ Sam tried to yell. _It’s a trap!_

Sam’s fingers closed tightly around Dean’s bicep. Dean jumped at the abrupt movement.

“Dude, what?”

_Did I just…_

Sam’s face remained calm and blank. “What?”

Dean stared. “What, ‘what’? What are you…” He tried to shrug off Sam’s hand, but failed. “Are you okay?”

_Look at me, Dean,_ Sam pleaded. _Really look at me!_

“Yeah, I’m fine,” replied Sam’s mouth. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sam’s hand relinquished its grip on Dean’s arm as abruptly as it had grabbed it. Dean stood for a few moments, eyes bouncing between Sam’s face and his hand, which now lay relaxed on the table.

“Okay.” Dean continued with his original task and pulled his phone off of its charger.

_No!_ Sam yelled mentally. _That thing isn’t me, Dean!_

How was he ever going to get his brother to see that the guy standing there was not really Sam?

 

* * *

 

 

Dean sighed as he paced, tapping his fingers on his leg, waiting for Rowena to pick up the phone. _Friggin’ witches,_ he thought.

“Oh, hello dearie,” came Rowena’s falsely sweet voice after the sixth ring. “How are you? How’s that towering brother of yours?”

“Terrific,” he deadpanned. “Working a case in Des Moines, and could use some witchy intel.”

“You boys want _my_ help?”

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, rolling his eyes at Rowena’s theatrics. “Yes, Rowena, we need your help. Sam was interviewing witnesses last night, and he thinks he noticed something kinda…”

_Tap tap tap…tap taaaap…_

Dean faltered as he looked over at Sam. He was still on his laptop at the table, brow furrowed in concentration, but his left index finger was tapping rhythmically. It was strange in a way he couldn’t quite identify.

“…kinda witchy,” he finished lamely. He covered the mouthpiece on his phone. “Sam, what are you doing?”

“Hmm?” Sam glanced up. “Oh, I’m digging through the Men of Letters archives. Trying to find anything they have that might help us figure out what’s going on here.”

_Taaaap…tap tap tap…_

Dean frowned. Sam didn’t even look like he noticed what his hand was doing.

“…like that, surely?”

“What?” Dean had almost forgotten he was still on the phone with Rowena.

She sighed. “Were you even listening to me?”

“One sec, Rowena.”

Dean ignored her indignant scoffs as he returned his focus to Sam’s hand. It was definitely a distinct pattern. Was that Morse code?

It had been a while since the Winchesters had to resort to using code, but it did come in handy once and a while. Dean watched, wondering why Sam felt the need to communicate so secretly here, in their supposedly safe motel room.

A…M…N…O…T…S…A…M…N…O…T…S…

_Am…not…s…something? What are you trying to say, Sam?_

He was repeating the same phrase over and over, but it didn’t make any sense.

_Am nots…Am nots…Am nots am nots am…Nots am…Nots am…_

Dean froze.

_Not Sam._

Dean’s mind was reeling. _Not Sam?_ What was _that_ supposed to mean? The geek boy sitting right there was definitely his brother…right? And if it wasn’t…why would he bother sending Dean that message?

Dean took a slow, deep breath, thinking quickly. What would be the best way to solve this?

“Rowena, how soon can you get here?”

“Well, if it’s _that_ urgent, I can be there around midnight tonight.”

“Awesome. We’re at the Bluejay Inn, room 122.”

Dean hoped that midnight would be soon enough to figure out what the hell was going on with Sam.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam looked up from his computer as Dean hung up the phone. “So, when’s Rowena getting here?”

Dean kicked back on his bed, grabbing the T.V. remote. “She said she can’t make it until late tomorrow morning. Not much for us to do but wait.”

Sam was exhausted. He had tried everything he could think of to take back control of his body, and now it was like his brain had been squeezed through a sieve. He thought he might have gained control of his left hand for a bit, but he couldn’t be too sure since Not-Sam kept his eyes glued to the computer screen. Maybe he was so desperate that he imagined it. That wouldn’t be too surprising.

Dean certainly wasn’t acting any differently. Sam’s older brother looked perfectly content, munching on yet another slice of pizza, watching a rerun of _Dr. Sexy, M.D._

_Why can’t you tell something’s wrong with me?_

He silently berated himself. The spell the witch cast on him was good; he couldn’t blame Dean for thinking Sam was just his usual self.

“Take it easy, Sammy,” Dean called over from the bed. “I’ve put up the bat signal, Rowena’s on her way, and this case will be solved in no time.”

Sam’s face stretched into a smile. “Thanks, Dean. I’ll put away the research in a bit.”

Surprisingly, the real Sam almost felt like smiling, too. Dean’s words sounded ordinary, but he had used one of their code phrases for when they couldn’t speak openly. For them, the term _bat signal_ meant, _Stay where you are, and sit tight. I’m coming to get you._


	6. Fighting from the Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Dean figure out what's wrong with Sam in time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience as I'm publishing this. I am almost done filling in the final chapters, so we will see how soon I can get those posted. Work hours are crazy right now, but I'll get this story finished as soon as I can.
> 
> This chapter was written for Bad Things Happen Bingo on Tumblr. Prompt: Chained to a bed.

Dean watched as Sam gathered his supplies to go take a shower. He fought to keep his body language and facial expressions relaxed as the bathroom door closed behind his brother, his thoughts circling back to what he had seen earlier.

_NOT SAM._

Sam would never send a coded message like that as a prank; it wasn’t his style. There was no reason to doubt that the message was legitimate—whoever this person was, it wasn’t his brother. However, if a monster was imitating Sam (it wouldn’t be the first time, after all), why would they send him a message at all?

The sound of a flushing toilet carried through the closed bathroom door. Dean jumped in his seat, then forced himself to calm down. A jumpy hunter is a dead hunter.

Dean took a deep, quiet breath and relaxed his shoulders. Maybe Sam was possessed? That would definitely make sense. If a demon or ghost had taken over Sam’s body, Sam would fight tooth and nail to take back control. That message may have been all he was able to manage. Dean drank down the rest of his beer, running through his options for how to deal with the thing in his brother…whatever it was.

* * *

Dean watched Sam stepped out of the bathroom, still toweling his long, damp hair. He hung the towel neatly on one of the hooks near the sink (just like he always does), then turned towards the bed closest to him.

_WHACK._

Dean’s right hook came out of nowhere, sending Sam staggering towards the bed.

“Dean, what th—"

_WHAM._

He punched Sam a second time. Dean had a pair of handcuffs in his hand by the time Sam reopened his now dazed eyes.

“Wh—what’re you…”

“Sorry ‘bout this, Sammy,” grunted Dean, roughly cuffing Sam’s hands to the headboard. “Can’t figure out what’s wrong unless you hold still.”

Sam seemed to regain some lucidity and tugged sharply at the cuffs. “Very funny, Dean. Now let me go!”

“Sorry, no can do.” Dean produced two more sets of handcuffs and moved on to attaching Sam’s feet to the foot of the bed. “I don’t know if you’re possessed or what, but I’m gonna get you out of this.”

“Possessed? Are you kidding me?” Sam let out an impatient huff. “I’m _me_ , Dean, now let me _go_.”

It certainly _sounded_ like Sammy. Dean forced his expression to remain blank as he grabbed the flask of holy water he had brought in from the Impala when he had retrieved the handcuffs. He had to help his brother, he reminded himself, no matter how convincing he seemed.

He sprinkled the holy water over Sam’s body, soaking his face and shirt. Sam sputtered slightly, but didn’t flinch or steam.

“See? Not a demon. _Now_ will you trust me?”

“Oh, I trust my brother,” Dean immediately replied, “and according to him, you’re not Sam.” He held an iron nail against Sam’s skin. No effect.

_Not a ghost, then._

With his first two suspects out the window, Dean was running out of options. He could have sworn that what he had seen earlier was the real Sam breaking through some kind of possession. Perhaps he was too quick to rule out shapeshifter?

He pulled a short, silver knife out of the bag and returned to the bed. “Hold still, Sammy,” he said, grabbing Sam’s bound arm.

Sam’s struggling returned with renewed vigor. “No, don’t—”

The slice Dean made in Sam’s arm was short and shallow, but more importantly, it didn’t burn or sizzle.

Dean sighed, stepping back and away from his tied-up brother. If Sam wasn’t a monster, and he wasn’t possessed, what was wrong with him?

_Tap. Tap tap tap._

Dean’s head snapped up to the source of the sound. Sam’s fingers were drumming against the headboard, though his face maintained an annoyed expression.

_Tap tap tap…Tap taaaap…_

It was that same Morse Code message from earlier. _Not Sam._

Dean grinned. “Thanks, Sammy,” he said with sincerity. He dashed to his nightstand, unlocked his phone, and had it up to his ear within seconds.

The line connected after the third ring.

_“I’m already on my way, you don’t have to—”_

“Rowena, there’s something wrong with Sam.”

_“What?”_ Her annoyed tone had shifted to one of worry. _“What happened? Is he hurt?”_

“Not exactly…” Dean glanced back at Sam, who was wearing his _quietly fuming_ face.

Rowena sighed. _“What did you two big galoots do this time?”_

“I don’t think Sam is actually Sam,” said Dean hesitantly. “He was acting normal earlier, but then he started tapping in Morse code saying, ‘Not Sam.’ He passed all the usual tests, so he’s not a demon or a ghost, but something’s definitely wrong.” He paused at the far end of the room from his handcuffed brother. “Now that I think about it, he was late getting back from interviewing witnesses earlier, and he wasn’t answering his phone.”

_“What is he doing right now?”_

“Not much, I got him handcuffed to the bed. He’s just staring at me, like he’s just annoyed I’m pulling a prank on him or something.” Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Any ideas?”

_“Hmm,”_ she mused, _“I have a few theories. He’s generally acting like himself, isn’t he? Not like a zombie?”_

“Yeah, and it’s friggin’ creepy,” he grumbled. “It’s like _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_.”

_“What color are his eyes?”_

Dean’s brow furrowed. “His eyes?” He stepped closer to the edge of Sam’s bed. “I don’t know, normal, I guess? Why?”

_“What about when you shine a light into them? What do you see?”_

“One sec.” Dean grabbed a penlight from his bag and marched over to his brother, who, suspiciously enough, was not even trying to escape. He didn’t even struggle as Dean held his eye open and pointed the penlight at it.

Dean looked carefully for whatever Rowena suspected was there. Sam’s pupil contracted in the bright light, but there was also something else in the pupil: a tiny cloud of shiny, silver vapor.

Dean snatched his phone back up to his ear. “Does silver mist mean anything to you?”

_“Och, I was afraid of that. The good news is that I know the witch who did this to Sam.”_

“Okay, and the bad news?”

Rowena hesitated. _“It’s a spell. Sam is trapped beneath layers of mind control. I can undo it, but it may take some time.”_

“How soon will you get here?”

_“I’m only the next town over, but whatever you do, don’t let your brother out. Right now, Sam would do absolutely anything that witch tells him to, and there’s no telling what he’ll do with_ her _at the reigns.”_

Dean’s pacing returned with renewed vigor. “I can keep him tied up just fine, Rowena, but who’s this witch? What does she want with Sam?”

“Why don’t you ask me yourself?” asked a feminine voice from the open front door.


End file.
